Stranger at a Funeral
\nEliot Johnson<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Who was this guy? And why
\nam I at his funeral? Some friend
\nof my grandfather, godfather of my uncle,
\nwhose name I hadn\u2019t heard until yesterday
\nwhen my mom searched my closet for a dress shirt
\nbecause my dad wanted me to see this.<\/p>\n
We stand in the back with the less-related, the second class mourners,
\nnearer to the daylight and the fresh air. Someone passes out candles. In the front,
\nthe priest, obscured in thick smoke, recites verses in Russian,
\nor Latin, or something, the auctioneer for the corpse. A woman in a pink shawl
\nwhom I caught a glimpse of as she disappeared behind the stage
\ncuts into the priest\u2019s recitation with disembodied chants.
\nAs he talks, the priest swings his incense ball on its chain
\nlike an exterminator fumigating an apartment. The smoke holds back
\nwhatever light penetrates the thick curtains and obscures
\nthe saints staring vacantly from the walls. Was the church always
\nthis dark, or did years of incense leave stains like cigarette smoke?
\n(When was the last time they aired this place out?)
\nThe dead man in the open box barely registers as
\na sideshow against this smoky cave they\u2019ve put him in.<\/p>\n
There are no stories, no memories, just the smoke, the blue hands crossed
\non the motionless chest, and the quiet sobbing from the first row.
\nThe bereaved file past the casket and kiss the metal icon
\nlaid on his forehead. The priest asks us to pray that the dead man
\nchooses not to become a ghost. The woman in front of me
\ncrosses herself for the hundredth time. Then, finally,
\nit\u2019s over. We blow out the narrow yellow candles, the pallbearers load the coffin
\ninto a scuffed black hearse, and the mourners disperse, squinting, into the grey
\nSeattle drizzle. Everything appears normal again as I slide into my dad\u2019s SUV,
\nand we leave the church behind to go see Nana at the hospital.<\/p>\n
A moment important for those close
\njust sort of sailed by me, noted, but without impact,
\nanother death on the news.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Eliot Johnson is 21, lives in Okanogan, and is earning a transfer degree at Wenatchee Valley College in Omak. Eliot writes, “I’ve messed around writing fiction for most of my life. I actually started this poem several years ago after the funeral of my uncle’s godfather, but didn’t make much of it until recently, when I re-worked it for the poetry component of a creative writing class.”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Stranger at a Funeral Eliot Johnson Who was this guy? And why am I at his funeral? Some friend of my grandfather, godfather of my uncle, whose name I hadn\u2019t heard until yesterday when my mom searched my closet … Continue reading